


the path of love

by jillyfae



Series: Sweetest of All Sounds [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: Love at first sight is not something Sebastian believes in. Or not that he's willing to admit. aka six times Sebastian didn't say what he was thinking ... and the one time Adelaide did





	1. vision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit/gifts).



> The first half of this is not so much new fic, as Sebastian's POV of scenes in other fics. (Links provided at the beginning of each section.)

> _[(Solace)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1077582) _

_Warm_. That’s all he can think as the woman walks up the aisle, the warmth of laughter hiding in her voice, in the curve of her lips, in the way the dim light catches on the shift of her fingers, the dark of her eyes, as warm as a hearth when you come in from the first sharp wind of winter, as warm and welcoming as home _._

She’s dusty, and tired, lines under her eyes and a certain heaviness to her step; wandering into the chapel an hour before dawn probably means she’s been up all night, been _working_ all night, to judge by the practical weight of her leather armor, the gauntlets in her belt and the staff strapped to her back. She’s caught him singing one of the least appropriate songs he knows, and there aren’t many reputable jobs in Kirkwall after midnight for her to be wandering away from, and he ought be either embarrassed or concerned or both, but all he can manage is a smile, one that widens to match hers as she smiles back.

 

> _[(these tears will run)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12426660/chapters/28306614) _

For just a breath, it sounds like her voice, but of course it can’t be, just because he wants, _nothing, never, because I want,_ and then he’s lifting his head to correct someone again, _not a Brother, not even that,_ and it _is_ her _,_ it’s _Hawke._

His heart leaps, and his body follows, standing, and moving, and he meets her eyes, and _grief,_ dark and shining, and it twists, like he’d just received the letter, like he was standing by the cold ashes of the pyres, like the sound of boot heels on stone, and he stops.

His throat hurts, and his head, and he hears his own voice, dull and flat, and he wants, he wants, he doesn’t know, he wants to pick her up and swing her around _alive alive she’s alive,_ he wants to fall and find if she would catch him, wants the bright shine of joy without the slick weight of guilt in his gut, that something as simple and familiar as the way the light gets lost in the weight of her hair could possibly be more important than all the blood that used to be in Starkhaven.

Wants her to leave, before his heart breaks, before he gets her killed, before that shine in her eyes fades, before she realizes he’s not worth it.

Wants her to stay, forever, and save him.

Wants, just once, to not need saving. To be able to save her, instead, to ease that grief in her eyes, even more than his own.

 

> _[(Faith: Forgiveness)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/670685/chapters/1229186) _

Sebastian's hands are steady, his breathing even, his eyes narrowed just enough to trace the merc's step, to gauge his speed, to time how long he has left before he dies.

It isn't long.

_Longer than he deserves._

It's a clean hit, a small spatter of blood and he falls, and Sebastian finds the next one, and the next, and then ... there aren't any more.

His breath hisses as he slides his last unneeded arrow back into the quiver, and sees the bodies, _so many bodies, not enough, never enough._ He swallows, bitter and thick, and turns.

She stands so straight, so still. _So beautiful_. Even with blood at her temple _his heart beats too fast, not his to worry about,_ and the edge of her teeth caught against her bottom lip _his lungs too slow, not his to soothe,_ and her eyes are dark and shadowed and he cannot read them, _not mine to ask_ and he closes his own eyes, afraid they'll give away his need, his shame. He hears the lift of her voice, the question she always asks, the offer he always refuses.

It hurts too much, to visit her world and know he'll never be a part of it.

"Thank you, Hawke," he manages at last, and leaves.

He does not look behind him as he goes.

 

> _[(Anticipation)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/672202) _

Hawke is studiously and gracefully polite. Part her mother's quite excellent training, part her own compassion clear in the depth of her eyes and the focus of her gaze. She is thoughtful and respectful to the Grand Cleric, quick and sharp and to the point with the Seneschal, and then obligingly quiet whenever Sister Petrice is especially... well, is especially _Petrice._ She seems to dance through Hightown's egos and politics with nary a missed step, and it is only rarely, in the pause and the deep breath she takes before crossing a threshold, before stepping out of an alley into a wide open Court where eyes are always watching, that there is a hint it is not, perhaps, as natural to her as breathing. She fakes it well, always comfortable in her leathers and boots, whether at the Keep or the Chantry or the Hanged Man or down in Darktown itself, and he thinks it would surprise most of Kirkwall to know what it costs her.

She grabbed his hand once, head turned down as her fingers squeezed and she took a breath and stepped away, and he quite forgot how to breathe for at least a mark, that someone trusted _him_ enough to want his hand, that _Hawke_ trusted enough to let him see ...

Or even better, _even worse, impossible and aching,_ when he introduced her to Sister Etheline; who professed herself delighted to meet Sebastian's Hawke at last, and the sweetest smile he'd ever seen crossed Adelaide's face. (He, on the other hand, had felt himself blush and had been hard-pressed not to stutter as he attempted to turn the conversation.)

He'd be grateful for even a stutter now, because for all he knows how much he adores the sight of her, knows he could trace in his memory the curve of her neck when she turns to toss a laugh at Isabela, the way her hair lays against her shoulders when she lets it loose, the way her eyes change with the light, deep and dark or bright and almost golden; he cannot bear this. He will not survive her, not the shine in her eyes and the flush of her cheeks as she glances at him and ducks her head, _shy;_ Adelaide shy for him to see her, to see her like this, silver shining in her hair and a skirt shifting around her legs as she descends the stairs, silk so soft and deep and blue against the warmth of her skin he thinks perhaps he is about to drown.

He reaches, for the surface, for a sign, and of course she meets his hand with her own, _of course she saves me,_ and her glove is fine and taut above her skin, soft against his mouth as he kisses her hand, _so little between lips and skin,_ and he is possessed of a sudden urge to _tug,_ just a little, so she feels the pull of the cloth all the way up her arm, feels _him_ all the way up her arm.

 _Just a little more,_ all it would take would be one slow pull to reveal the bend in her elbow; he could kiss the crease in her arm, follow the descending glove to the inside of her wrist, feel the beat of her heart beneath his lips, _and then._ And then he makes his fingers loosen, lifts his head and meets her eyes, darker than he's ever seen them before, as if she could read his mind, _as if she thinks the same,_ and it is only Varric's voice, Madame Leandra's smile, that stop him from doing something irretrievable stupid, like asking her to marry him perhaps, and instead he manages to remember something resembling _manners,_ and offers his arm to escort her into dinner.

He still feels the possibility of her skin against his lips long after he leaves.

 

> _[(Sentinel of Kirkwall: Q is for Questioning)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2585789/chapters/5757767) _

Hawke calls him _Prince._

She steps back after meeting his eyes, and ducks her head, and it hurts, worse than ever his mother's cool disdain had managed, because he'd hoped ...

It hurts because Adelaide hurts, every time she looks at him, and he doesn't know how to make it better.

She used to smile, every time she greeted him. She still does, but there's a shadow now, a shiver. A distance, one he almost manages to cross, every day, only to see it again, fresh and cold, the next morning.

She hates it as much as he does; he can tell, can feel it in the too tight grip of her fingers in the brief moments when she allows him to take her hand, can hear it in the quaver in her voice, the barest tremble in the familiar lift of the Chant whenever she meets his eyes at Services.

Witnesses it in the hard slam of her tankard against Varric's table, in the one, or two, or several too many ales she drinks on too many of the nights he comes to The Hanged Man.

They keep circling around that shadow in her eyes, the fear in his heart, and neither of them seem to have the slightest idea how to change the steps of this terrible dance.

He certainly doesn't, has no inspiration at all of how to convince the one person in the world who knows how entirely unreliable he is, knows every failure and every disappointment he has caused, that this time it will be different. That this time he'll catch her if she falls.

He isn't sure how to convince himself, and he would fling himself at her feet in a heartbeat if it was only his own destruction at stake, _but not hers._

He cannot bear the thought that he could hurt her.

Cannot bear the thought that he _is_ hurting her, even now, no matter how often he does what she asks. Cannot trust himself to do what he wants, instead, an avalanche of gifts and terrible poetry and better music and dancing and wedding v-

He's broken so many vows.

His decisions have a history of ending so very badly.

He tries sometimes, a careful step closer, just a little, but any time they are alone, any time he starts to speak of admiration, every time says her _name,_ that distance grows, and her eyes are too wide, too bright, and if he makes her run too far, too fast, however will he guard her back?

Not being her friend at all would be so much worse than even this.

But this is not something they can endure, not forever. One of them will bow, will break. He has to try. Has to find another way.

Somehow.

Kissing her to see if she forgets to argue with him is probably a terrible plan. On several levels.

But now he's thought of it, he cannot imagine anything else.

 

> _[(Services Rendered)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/668701) _

She never kisses him in public. He never holds her hand one second more than is proper.

Not that that is enough to fool anyone, to make them discreet.

(They are terrible at discreet.)

He escorts her to every meeting, every party, every concert, her warmth on his arm. He watches her, always, every time, always knows where she is, how long it's been since she looked back at him. (Not long, never long, never more than a breath, two. So very long, that one solitary breath on his own.) She smiles up at him, her whole face aglow, every time the music starts, every time they take a step, every time they stand too close together, every time they dance.

They dance too much. It is not like it was when his parents were young, or even his own few years ago when last he lived a life for the gossips to see; it is not a _scandal_ , to dance with the same partner more than twice, but it is still enough to make a statement.

Clear enough to all of Kirkwall.

Except sometimes, he thinks, to Adelaide herself. Sometimes she is too still, her eyes too dark when she looks at him, and it is not the same as it was before, when they almost broke apart, but it is close, too close, and his heart twists in something close to panic, remembering all the times she tried to convince him to go somewhere on his own, all the times she refused to accept his escort, all the times they stood apart and bled, deep inside where they thought no one else could see.

He follows her, of course, refuses to retreat, but her smile is sad as she lets him, as she takes his arm again, and her eyes stay too dark for hours.

All he can do is hope, at last, that she'll trust his actions more than either of their histories. As if that weight was something either of them would ever be able to escape. But that wasn't a reason not to try. So he tries. Perhaps too much? He seldom stays in his own rooms, follows her instead to hers, wakes up in her bed and spends his day at her side, only to follow her home again as often as he is able.

He is afraid one day he'll go too far, let slip too many endearments, make the depth of his emotions clear, watch her face close off as she turns away, unwilling to risk herself on the fickle turn of fate. Unwilling to risk herself on all the promises he's broken.

Equally afraid he'll say too little, watch her step away convinced he is only a dalliance.

As if either of them know how to _dally._

Either way he'll lose, but he does not know, anymore, what the price for winning might be.

Does not know if his fear is prudent, or cowardly. Perhaps a bit of both? He does seem destined to finally make one decision, only to be plagued just as terribly by the next.

He just hopes he'll recognize the moment when he should act. Hopes it hasn't already passed. Wishes he knew what she was thinking, on the nights she sits still and quiet, eyes dark as she watches the world around her, eyes shadowed as she watches _him._

He would worry more about that shadow, but whenever they're alone, whenever the firelight warms her eyes to gold, she still kisses him the same, her whole body leaning in, her heart beating hard enough he can almost taste it, hard enough he can feel his own race to match.

And how could he doubt her? _Never._ Especially when she kisses him like that. Especially when she makes _such_ a sound when he is inside her; it is almost a groan and almost a prayer, and his heart aches and his cock throbs and his skin feels too hot, too tight, and even his eyes burn with it, with _her,_ with the weight of her hair caught between his fingers, the way her lips part when she gasps before he kisses her, the lift of her chin and the instant when her fingers curl in too tight and the edge of her teeth almost cut, almost bruise, before she softens, before she clings to him as if to keep herself from drowning.

It is not a _quiet_ sound.

He is not sure why that surprises him, but it does, every time, and his own voice drops lower, rougher, the barest echo against her skin, _just for her, only for her,_ as he tries to draw it from her again, until her skin is so hot it scalds his fingertips, again, until his throat is raw and her voice is ragged, again, until every breath tastes of her, again, until he cannot remember his name, or hers beyond _beloved, beloved,_ _if this is how I drown I welcome it._

But he doesn't drown. He breathes, and there she is, still beside him, a sleepy murmur against his shoulder, a bright laugh as the fire fades and settles to embers, a gentle tug of strong fingers as she pulls him close as if to claim him, _mine._

 _Yours,_ he agrees, as he smooths back her hair, as her weight settles and her eyes close and he feels the brush of her breath against his skin, slow and steady.

_Sweet dreams, Adelaide._


	2. voice

> _([Be careful what you wish for](http://archiveofourown.org/works/672180))_

He's half asleep, he knows, those warm and drifting moments with Adelaide's warmth beside him when every slow breath is perfect. The moments when he ought to be the most careful, most needs to remember to guard himself, to watch her, because they are the moments when he most forgets what a narrow path they're on, barely balanced, barely holding.

The moments he is most likely to push them too far, one way or the other, and make them fall.

But the fire has dimmed, the rugs and pillows are soft, the breeze is warm, the moonslight shines in her hair as it spreads across his shoulder, makes the shadows soften, blue and sweet, and enough of Kirkwall is sleeping that he can see more stars than usual scattered above them from here on the Estate's roof. 

It is so quiet, so perfect, he forgets the ache in his chest, smooths her hair back behind her ear and admires the line of her jaw, the curl of her eyelashes against her skin, the barely visible spot of the beauty mark beneath them, right at the corner of her eye.  _ Maker, you're beautiful. _

It is only when she makes a sound, small and sharp, turns her head into his shoulder, only when he sees her fingers curl into a fist where once they rested soft against his shirt, that he realizes he spoke aloud. 

"Adelaide," he begins, he tries, but her head shakes, and he can feel the tremble in her arms. "Please?"

She makes the sound again, as silvered and deadly as the edge of a knife, but she lifts her head to look at him, eyes shining and lashes dark and damp. "Maker, Sebastian,  _ please? _ "

"Please," her cheek is warm against his palm, his thumb damp as he smooths it carefully beneath her eye. He tries to smile, uncertain where or how he went too far. "You are beautiful."

She closes her eyes, and the shift in her breath, the hitch across her shoulders, are enough to make him want to wail, to kick his heels like a five year old, to swear at the unfair world that his love causes such pain, that he makes her so  _ sad, _ when all he wants in all the world is to hear her laugh again.

"I'm so-" He knows he ought to leave, tries to apologize, but he's half a breath into the word when she is moving, arms wrapped around his shoulders, head digging into his throat so hard he's afraid to breathe, afraid to swallow, _ just afraid _ , but he cannot help clinging back, eyes burning and chest aching.

"Don't you dare." Her voice is muffled, addressed more to his shoulder than anything else, but he can feel the words against his skin, can feel her mouth and her breath and her body pressed to his, and how can this be  _ wrong, _ when she is so perfect?

"I'm not sorry," he murmurs above her hair, and smiles as he feels her squeeze even tighter. 

"Good."

"It's hard to breathe though."

She squeaks,  _ actually squeaks,  _ if he wasn't in love with her already that would have doomed him, and tries to shove away even as he tries to pull her close, and she's blushing when they're finally settled again, and her eyes are still too bright and her cheeks are damp and her lips taste ever so slightly of salt as he kisses her, her breath soft and her fingers curling around his arms and his chest still aches but it's better now, warmer.

"Adelaide," he whispers, and he kisses her on the tip of her nose, and there  _ at last, _ a hint of a smile as she looks at him, her eyes so dark they look black. 

"You probably won't let me apologize, any more than I would you?" It's barely a smile, a crooked lift to one side of her mouth, but it's more than enough.

He kisses her forehead.

Her smile grows, lifting up more on one side than the other. "I'm going to do it any w-"

He kisses her on the mouth, hard, tension burning his lips, his hands, holding her tight to him until she swats him on the shoulder. 

"No." He feels positively dizzy as he lifts his head, as he looks at her, flushed and smiling. "No apologies, unless you actually don't want me to kiss you again."

Her voice is soft, softer than the fingertips so gently touching his cheek, warmer than the shadows in her eyes. "I will always want you to kiss me again."

So he does, and he feels the moment her arms ease, and she sighs against his mouth, and he cannot remember what either of them ever thought they had to apologize  _ for, _ not now, with her in his arms and the air so soft around them.

" _ Tha gaol agam ort? _ " She whispers against his mouth, and his fingers curl too hard, a grunt caught in his mouth and a stutter in his chest, uneven breath and heartbeat and a burn down his throat. 

"Always," he answers, though his voice feels too small as it escapes, rough as sand and fragile as glass.

There's a light in her smile, but tears in her eyes, and he can feel a tremble in her fingers despite the quiet even sound of her breathing. "And how should I say that, then ... always?"

" _ A ghnàth. _ "

" _ A ghnàth _ ," her voice cracks, and the tears overflow, and he feels like he's dying, lost and shattered and aching. "Forgive me."

"For what?" It seems a lie, somehow, the quiet murmur of his voice, the endless open warmth of the sky above them. It should be storming, lightning and thunder and wind as loud as the wail caught in his throat; his voice should break as his heart does.

Her eyes close, lashes too dark, too damp, awkwardly sticking together, thick enough to hide the beauty mark at the corner of her left eye. "Tomorrow."

He cannot quite stop the sound he makes at that, the echo of all his losses, all his failures, caught in the sound of her tears. "What could require forgiveness in a tomorrow we face together? I know you have no cause to trust my --"

Her eyes open wide, a gasp different than the earlier shivering pain. "Of course I trust you!"

"But I make you so sad!" 

"Not you," her breath escapes, low and long. "Never you."

It twists in his gut, fear to confusion, unable to feel relief through all her pain. He kisses her cheek, tastes salt against the flush of her skin. "Then why are you crying?"

"Do you know what loving an Amell does to someone?" She laughs, and it is worse than even her tears, shredding and tearing at the ache beneath his ribs, 'til he bites his cheek to dam the pain. "You know why you never met my father, or Bethany. Why you did meet Gamlen. And then Carver?" Her voice dies entirely, but he sees her mouth still move, the shape of her lips as she cannot quite say  _ mother. _ She shakes her head. "I could not, not you too. Not because of me."

"Adelaide." His voice tangles in the exhale of his breath, and he wishes he knew what to say. " _ Hawke. _ "

He kisses her again instead, slow and soft, until he feels her breath hitch, and she shifts, tucks her head against his shoulder, sighs as he strokes her hair.

"I love you." 

He feels the press of her lips against his shoulder, the warmth of her kiss through his shirt making him smile, making his breath ease out again, steadier than it had been a moment ago. 

"You are not responsible for your losses, and I like to think we can save each other from tomorrow." Her grip tightens, and he closes his eyes, savoring the feel of her arms, the warmth of her against him, the heavy silk of her hair beneath his fingers.  _ Anything, together. _

"Even if," his voice trails off, he shrugs. "Even if we can't, it would be worth it. Is worth it, was worth it, from that moment you laughed at  _ Devilish Mary, _ much less everything after."

She makes a startled sound, almost a laugh, no longer quite a sob. "We didn't even know each other's names."

"Your name didn't -- doesn't matter." She leans back, looks at him, and his breath catches at the darkness in her eyes, warm and endless.  _ Not just an Amell, not just Hawke, but mine, my Adelaide. _ "Your heart does."

"And yours." Her hand presses against his chest, his heart thumps against his ribs in response, his favorite uneven ache, sweet and painful. "Though I suppose it's the same now, isn't it, your heart and mine?"

" _ Tha gaol agam ort a ghnàth,  _ Adelaide." She shivers, her breath a high-pitched whine as his hands slide beneath her blouse to pull her close, to kiss the curve of her neck.

"Again," she whispers.

He lets the edge of his teeth catch against her skin before he obeys, feeling the heat of his breath, his words, against her skin, "my love is yours forever, Adelaide."

"Again," her voice is louder this time, steadier, as she yanks on his shirt.  

He disobligingly slides his hands up her back, still wrapped around her, neither of them able to get free as he lifts his chin, nips at the line of her jaw, before he can whisper directly into her ear, "not 'til I'm inside you again."

Her body jerks, a curve of spine and a lift of hips and an ache of a stuttering gasp, and then she tugs harder, and this time he moves, and he hears the distinctive tear of a seam as she practically rips his shirt off, as he helps with hers, blouse and skirt and trousers, 'til they're pressed together at last, skin to skin, and she yanks on his hair 'til his mouth is close enough for her to kiss, and they fall back across the roof, and his arm's pinned and her hips shift and the angle's wrong so he rolls over, carries her with him 'til he's sprawled on his back and she grins down at him, moonslight in her eyes and starlight in her hair, and he cries out as she takes him,  _ all of him, _ his hips buck and she leans back with a cry of her own, wild and free and her body grips him, her thighs tense as she rides him, as he lifts, again,  _ again, _ "I love you," and he feels her clench at the words, "I love you," a familiar edge to her breath as her eyes close, an uneven shudder, "touch yourself, love," she bites her lip, and her hand's between  her thighs, fingers pressing, and he feels her break, hears her yell, moans as she comes,  _ and comes, _ almost scalding as her body grips his cock, as she falls forward and he catches her, kisses her, follows her with a last stutter of his hips, his heart, "I love you, Adelaide."

She laughs again, breathless, beautiful, perfect, breath against his skin, hair trailing against his face and fingers against his shoulders and thighs against his hips. "I love you, Sebastian."


End file.
